Now I know what it is like to be a classical princess,
to devour the vista from my tinny window overlooking the piazza.
Pigeons flank the procession of this voyage to the end of the earth and back.
Mothers with plastic bags and handfuls of shopping traverse the cobbles to go home to their kids and husbands like an animal, full of instinct and duty.
Peasant traders with wide hips and big bosoms, hands like leather,
hold huge watermelons up in the air and shout their mantra.
Small pink triangle cut in the skin of a living fruit.
The women laugh amongst themselves, deep creases on faces,
split hard work into joy and money.
Men meet and barter.
Hourly ring of the church bell,
electronic, sounds of the past and the future drift,
the warm air saturated with diesel and fruit.
Sun shadowed by classical buildings from another era,
detail oblique viewed through an electronic age as mobiles throw their message to towers far away into world without history.